


From the Dining Table

by MorningRainandCoffeeStains



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fair warning: this is v sad, Modern AU: Military Lexa, One Shot, sorry in advance, tw: PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningRainandCoffeeStains/pseuds/MorningRainandCoffeeStains
Summary: Can you love someone who doesn't know who you are?Lexa's been discharged from the military. Clarke knows she's lucky that she's come back in one piece; others aren't so lucky. But she wouldn't call this lucky, not at all. Because there is one piece missing, and it's a big one.Modern AU: Military Wives





	From the Dining Table

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is my very first contribution to _The 100_ fandom. And oh, you guys... I just wrote this AU story for Clexa and... you're gonna hate me by the end of it, that's all I'm gonna say, haha. 
> 
> Also, side note: for those of you who are die-hard _The 100_ fans, I mostly write for the show _Wynonna Earp_ (you'll see I went on a bit of a hiatus because these last two years have been _nuts_ for me life-wise lol). I don't know a ton about the show; I've only really followed the Clexa storyline purely because it shows up in my social feeds a lot because of WE haha. But I've seen enough of Clexa's interactions and have read a few fics to get a feel for their voices, and idk I think it's decent? Just warning you in case there are intricacies that aren't super parallel to the canon universe. 
> 
> In any case, hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. The sectioned/headlined formatting is there because the story's supposed to be told through what's on their home's dining table. I took a college Creative Writing course and we had an exercise where we had to keep a 30-day journal about anything we wanted, and we were instructed to create a story out of it. So that's how that started, in case you're curious!

Can you love someone who doesn’t know who you are? It was Spring when I asked myself that question. In case you’re wondering, no, I don’t mean it in the figurative way, like when you realize someone who’s supposed to know you well doesn’t know you at all. It’s in the “real” way, probably the realest way possible. It’s someone who’s completely lost any trace of you in their memory. Seven years ago, I took her last name as mine, for better, for worse, in sickness, and in health. Today, she doesn’t remember the better  _ or _ the worse. Today, on the outside, she is the same, perfectly okay, and yet, inside, in the deeper recesses of her brain, she's utterly unrecognizable, irreversibly changed—and so, as it goes, have I. 

The sun is the main reason why there are 4 seasons in a year. They say that if the sun disappeared, we wouldn’t immediately be aware of its absence. In reality, because light is traveling such an incredible distance, it would take us between 8 or 9 minutes before the sunlit sky we are so familiar with would begin to recede into darkness; in its place, we’d see just the stars. But even that can’t be a good enough consolation: photosynthesis would cease, and plants and cyanobacteria would no longer produce oxygen. In sum: we cannot be without the sun. And yet, they say it’ll take you a little while to ask yourself where all the light went. For me, it took only an instant.

 

**May 1: Winter** TABLE OF CONTENTS:  _ 3 unopened envelopes, a half-empty mug of lukewarm  _ _ coffee, and a photograph _

Having grown up in North Dakota, in a city called Jamestown, I learned early on the brutalities of winter—and, more importantly, how to cope during those times. To put it a bit snidely: there’s a reason why the middle of winter is called “the dead of winter.” I remember on an early, still dark, January morning—it had been the fourth day we were snowed into our home—my dad had told me this: “All you’ve gotta remember is no winter lasts forever.” He’d looked ridiculous, standing in the kitchen with a comically large winter coat on. (Our heater had decided to give up on us when we needed it most; I think most people believe cheating is the worst betrayal, but I’d beg to differ.) I remember not saying much to this, just sighing and giving a dismissive shake of my head as I slumped further into the couch cushions. I didn’t know that every winter afterwards, I’d carry those words with me, as I’d go out to shovel piles and piles of white torture and come back in with sore shoulders and an aching back for the umpteenth time. 

“In the meantime,” my father said after his initial thought, the high-pitched tinkling of his swirling spoon against the sides of the tea mug a strangely calming sound as it drifted in the air between us, “just make it bearable.” And he lifted the mug up pointedly, smiled wryly, and took a sip of the honey-sweetened tea. 

This morning, Lexa walked up to me, with a photograph in her hand. I hadn’t seen it in years, but it was instantly recognizable. The sting in my eyes that soon followed the realization of what she’d discovered was equally all too familiar. 

“Sorry, I’ve just been cleaning,” she said, in that painfully diplomatic way of hers, so far from the more playful cadence of  _ before _ . She slid the photograph in front of me, as if it was an item that was definitely not hers, and needed to be returned immediately. “I found this in the back of my drawer. Is it yours?” 

It took me a moment to find my voice, and I was surprised I did, but I managed to croak out, “Yeah, it is. Thanks.” 

Though the photo itself was a bit crumpled at the edges, the messy black and white blob on the photograph was clear as day. We were so close.  _ She _ was so close. She already had a name; it was going to be Madi. Four years later, and I had no idea Lexa still had the picture. We got rid of all of it—at least, that’s what I thought. I guess she had a harder time letting go than I initially thought. I thought. I thought.

The better part of me knew she should know the significance of what she’d just found. But she wasn’t ready for that memory, I didn’t think. Not yet. Maybe someone would argue that that’s fucked up of me—that she should know, even if she doesn’t remember. But I’m not sure if I myself am ready to remember that day, in all of its sickening glory. 

Lexa just nodded. “Okay, well… if I find anything else, I’ll make sure to bring it to you...” her eyes flickered briefly to one of the unopened envelopes on the table, “Clarke.”

Then she walked quietly back to her room to resume cleaning. I made sure to listen for the click of her door closing before I let my jaw give, trembling violently, my cheeks rapidly lining with the moisture in my eyes, gathering in droves. As I turned around to make a pourover of coffee to distract myself, (Lexa always hated those Keurig machines) I could see my father’s bearded face behind his own steaming mug. 

Just make it bearable. 

 

**May 10: Spring** TABLE OF CONTENTS:  _ An empty plate with crumbs, a smart phone, a guitar  _ _ pick, a new candle labeled “A Calm & Quiet Place”  _

“Is this yours?” she asked me one morning. 

It was a Baby Taylor, the one I got her on her 25th birthday. Aside from the tiny seashell sticker on the bottom right of its body, the instrument was pristine. She was always extra sure to take care of that thing. 

“No,” I responded, a tiny, amused smile on my lips, “that’s yours.” 

She seemed surprised by this, her neck cocking backwards slightly. She lifted the guitar higher up, peering at the front of it. She looked at me, then back at the guitar again. “Did I used to play?” 

As with most of what she’d say, I was equal parts saddened and bewildered by this inquiry. The calluses on her left hand’s fingertips were still there. I wondered where else she thought they could have possibly been from. 

“Yeah, God, Lexa,” I said, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice. “Used to play? That was your  _ thing _ , before you got deployed. You weren’t just the bro at the party who’d rock up and play ‘Wonderwall’ and then not know anything else. You played every day; people could request almost any song from you and you’d know it.” She smiled at this, though her face was contorted in a vaguely sad way as well. “One of your friends used to call you Lexa Hendrix, but you hated it. And you’d say the same thing, every time, ‘The only thing that’ll clap is my hand against your face if you don’t stop comparing me to him. He's the greatest ever; no one even comes close.’” She laughed at this. It made me want to cry, because I realized how long it’d been since I heard it, but I bit my lip, hard, before continuing. “You and I used to listen to a lot of folk and indie stuff when we first started dating, and I taught you one of my favorites.” 

I got up from my seat at the dining table, taking the guitar from her and sitting on the arm of the couch. It’d been a little while since I played myself, but there was one song I had in mind. One I (foolishly) hoped would bring her back to me, even if it was just a fragment. One of her favorites— _ our _ favorites. I started playing, albeit a little slower than the tempo of the original song, and then singing, but before I could even get past the first verse, Lexa was suddenly shrinking away, eyes widening, chest expanding. I stopped playing then, concern melting rapidly into my face. “Lexa, are you okay—?” 

I’d hardly gotten up from my seat on the couch before she’d rushed back to her room, slamming the door shut. I ran after her, going for the handle, but it was locked. She locked it. I rattled at it, knocking desperately. I could hear her labored breaths clear through the door.

“Lexa, let me in. What’s wrong? What happened?” There were no loud noises to trigger her, no images—that I knew of, at least—that would make her go spiraling like this again, and I wanted so badly to help her. But she’d told me again and again that it was better to let her deal with the episodes on her own. She was afraid she’d hurt me, she said. I didn’t care, I’d tell her, over and over. I don’t care. I don’t care. I want to be there for her. I know we’re strangers in your mind but you’ll never be one in mine. I just want to help you. Even if it means a few bumps or bruises. 

It was only until she’d said, quietly, one night, as if she was afraid of saying it out loud, “I can’t guarantee it’ll only be just a few bumps or bruises,” that I’d been given some pause. 

This one lasted several hours. I never knew what to do. This time, I sat at the dining table, helplessly, watching the intermittent flicker of the candle in the center of it, the slow, meandering disintegration of the light blue wax into a warm, darker blue pool. My eyes traced over the elegant curves of its label, ‘A Calm & Quiet Place.’ 

I called Murphy that night, one of Lexa’s buddies who was in the same platoon, and whom she talked to constantly. They were buddies ‘til the end, literally: they were discharged and came home at the same time. I called him often about these kinds of things; he almost always had answers. 

“What song did you say you were playing?”

“Honey, who is that?” I could hear Emori, his wife, distantly in the background. Her spouse still had his memory. I think that might be why I was jealous of her, for a time, after they came back home, and I couldn’t figure out why. It was staring me right in the face then, though. 

“It’s Clarke!” he called back. I didn’t hear her response to that. “Sorry, that was—”

“Emori, I know.” I don’t know why, but I smiled. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Anyway, um, what was the song?” 

“Compass, by Jamie Lidell,” I said. “Do you know why that might have triggered her?” 

He went silent. It was long enough that I pulled the phone away from my ear to be sure we were still connected. Finally, I opened my mouth to say something, but he cut in as soon as I did.

“That was the night we lost Jordan,” he said. “That song was playing on the radio; night was seemingly pretty damn quiet, but then we heard a caravan comin’ up on us, and next thing we knew, there was a grenade in our tent, and well… I reckon you can figure out the rest.” A beat. “Kid was naïve as hell, but he was also a helluva fighter. Seen him beat some of the oldest members in our squad during our training matches.” He stopped again, seeming to get lost somewhere else for a moment, reminiscing. “He was only seventeen years old, Clarke.” I could see him shaking his head, somehow. “ _ Seventeen _ … I bought my first truck at seventeen, remember drivin’ it reckless-like through the dirt roads by my house. Felt like I’d just discovered what true freedom was like.” He sighed. “Can’t believe Jordan  _ died _ fighting for a nation’s at the same damn age.” 

“Oh,” I said. Lexa’s reaction made sense now. I’d heard plenty of these kinds of stories before, of course. Not just from Lexa and Murphy but from other military wives and husbands themselves. As it is for the service members, they don’t ever get easier to hear. “That’s terrible, Murphy. I’m… sorry I made you relive that. I just… wanted to know why she was so scared. She used to really love that song. I thought it might bring something back—something  _ good _ , this time.”

Like the good-natured guy he was, I could imagine Murphy smiling, half-happy, half-sad, into the phone. “I did, too. ‘Til that night, at least.” 

It was pointless, because he couldn’t even see me, but I nodded understandingly. “Okay, well. Thank you, Murphy. You’re always such a great help.” 

“Of course,” he said, his voice taking on that gentleness he always seemed to use in my  direction. “Anytime, anywhere, anything, I’m here.” He said it every time, but the distinct comfort it brought was always the same. Always sobering. 

“Yeah, same here, Murphy. Good night.”

“Hey, Clarke?” he said, before I could hang up. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” He also said this every time we spoke. It made me love him and hate him all at the same time. But I could never hate him, not really. It’s not like Lexa remembered him much either—and to be fair, after all they’ve been through, it couldn’t have been much easier for him than me.

“Don’t be.” 

 

**May 20: Summer** TABLE OF CONTENTS:  _ A few papers, a watch, a candle labeled “A Calm & _ _ Quiet Place,” no longer new _

My parents were over. They’d finally decided to visit. My mom was sitting next to Lexa at the dining table when she’d uttered one of the best things I’d heard from her yet. 

“Hey, I have that watch,” she’d said, reaching out and tapping the brown leather-banded accessory on the table, which my mom had removed from her wrist out of habit. She has that watch, Lexa had said. She didn’t have it anymore; she’d lost it years ago. (She’d been devastated; it was a gift from my mom. They got on so well they were practically best friends.) Lexa remembered. It wasn’t me and wasn’t my parents, but she remembered something. My lips had stretched into a cheek-aching smile, and Lexa had given me a confused one in return, but I didn’t care. She remembered. 

I still hear those words, late at night, while I’m sleeping next to her. On a rare night she’d been stock-still, abnormally smooth breaths gliding out of her body, I’d heard them again, in the miniature silence between the murmur of her lungs, over and over—Hey, I have that watch Hey I have that watch Hey I have—and there was finally a different feeling swelling in my chest. It wasn’t like the others, the ones that seemingly wanted to take up residence in my throat. It surpassed my esophagus, straight up to my mouth, and my face was stretching into an unaccustomed smile. There is something about the first true day of spring after a particularly brutal winter, something about the weightlessness of joy when it comes on the heaviest days, relieving your shoulders of the ache. 

Tomorrow, she’ll probably wake up fitfully from one of her nightmares, and I’ll probably ask myself, again, why trauma gets to have permanent residence over me. But right now, my limbs were getting heavier, and I let them, let all the fight of each day drift away. Tugging me deep, and deeper, beneath the never-ending burden of consciousness—at least, until I had to wake up, and face the burden, once more.

 

 **May 30: Autumn**                TABLE OF CONTENTS: _Nothing. Absolutely nothing._

In the military, there is something called “combat breathing.” It’s a simple technique designed to help with a complicated problem: panic attacks and nervous breakdowns. It goes like this: Breathe in, count to four, steadily. 1… 2… 3… 4. Hold your breath, count to four. Exhale, count to four. Lexa told me about it over the phone one time. We used to only have 15 minutes to talk, 15 minutes to tell each other about everything that had happened in the sometimes months it would be since the last time we’d spoken, really spoken. It used to drive us crazy, because we’d go into the calls knowing it wasn’t enough time. It got to a point where we’d pre-write the things we wanted to say to each other on a napkin, pick and choose the stories we thought were most important to tell each other. Still, the 15 minutes could never fit it all. 

“Is it scary? You know… out there?” I’d asked her once during one of those measly 15’s. I’d immediately retracted it. “Oh, God, that’s such a stupid question, isn’t it? Sorry, I—”

“No, no,” she’d assured me, “it’s a good question, actually.” She was silent for a beat. “I mean, of course,” she said. “It’s scary. Absolutely fucking terrifying, sometimes, yeah.” She stopped again, thinking. “But you know what, there are some days that come up on you and surprise you. Just the other day, we found out Jasper's wife gave birth to a baby boy. We wanted to celebrate, and we usually don’t have much to do it with, but this time, Murphy had a bottle of champagne. The chow halls don’t carry alcohol, so we asked him where the hell he got it and he said he just picked it up from one of the abandoned convenience stores we come across sorta often, said he was saving it in case something like this came up. So we popped it and we celebrated this guy and his son altogether and God, the champagne tasted like dusty drywall, but it felt like the happiest any of us had ever been in months. It was like everyone in that room was having a baby.” She laughed heartily at this. “So… yeah, it’s scary out there, but other days, you get to stop and remind yourself: the world doesn’t stop being beautiful when what’s right in front of you isn’t.”

A week later, we had another phone call. Jasper had passed away in a freak accident during one of their missions. That was when Lexa told me about staying grounded, and the number 4. The years come in 4’s, and so does the time it takes to come back down and land.

The sunlight is bright today, slipping through the slits in the curtains, casting short then long shadows upon the pretty mahogany of the dining table. Nothing on it except warmth, where the sunlight had settled peacefully, before moving elsewhere, languidly, hand-in-hand with the hours of the day and the unassailable tick of the nearby clock. 

 

It takes 365 days for the Earth to orbit around the sun, and the 4 seasons assume their rightful places every trip. For me, the seasons came to me all at once, in a single month. I’m still trying to learn how to deal with time. And how to feel like it isn’t constantly slipping through my fingers, like sand. Like Lexa’s love for me, made up of tiny grains, returning back onto shore, before the ocean comes to take it all back and swallow it whole, taking the heartache along with it.

**Author's Note:**

> So... do you hate me yet? hahaha. I'm sorry, I'm a masochist when it comes to writing. Always be writing sad shit. It's kinda the best though, I dunno. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! The 100 fans, I hope you enjoyed; y'all are a great/funny fandom! I know some of you are even Wynonna Earp fans, and shoutouts to you guys! For those of you who aren't, you are _missing out_. I know y'all thought you were fed during the Clexa era, but lemme tell you, the showrunner for WE is so pro-gay she's our (Gay)Lord and savior and she keeps us truly F E D. Go watch it. Amazing cast, beautiful people, beautiful storyline – you will not regret it, I promise.


End file.
